Helplessness
by EmberFalcon
Summary: Anyalla Cousland has been captured and taken to Fort Drakon. Alistair is denied the change to go and save her, leaving him to wonder and wait and worry. When she returns, will all be well in the Arl's Estate...?
1. Of Capture and Loss

Okay, this one in particular is one that only recently popped into my head, while playing –another- playthrough of Dragon Age: Origins…when your Warden is captured before the Landsmeet, if Alistair isn't in your party, he does get upset if he's hardened, but it's mainly directed at Anora and less about showing concern for the said captured Warden. Provided he isn't part of the rescue party (if you send one at all) this is what I think would happen as he was waiting to hear news. Apologies if it's bad…

"Eamon! I may have done a terrible thing!" Alistair's stomach began to knot before he had even turned around to look at Anora as she burst into the room. He wasn't sure what unsettled him more: what she said and how she said it, or…

…or the fact that he couldn't sense the Taint anywhere near the estate…

…meaning that Anyalla was most definitely _not_ with her…

"Barely met, and already she betrays us. She and my mother would get along famously." Morrigan's choice of words did little to ease his tension as he turned to face them. He had been in the Arl's study, discussing their next steps with Eamon in preparation for the Landsmeet when Anora, Morrigan, Wynne, and Beowulf the Mabari had come in through the door unannounced. He found his voice, and gave himself a mental pat on the back when it didn't sound nearly as nervous as he felt at the moment.

"What? What is it you might have done…exactly?" He swallowed the lump in his throat and waited for her to respond. _'Let's not get hasty,'_ he thought to himself. _'For all you know, she might have dropped a cheese knife, or let the guard dogs loose, or-'_

"What in Andraste's name has happened? Are you alright?" Eamon asked, the nervousness in his voice apparent even to Morrigan, who for her part, seemed like she was resisting the urge to set the Queen of Ferelden on fire at the moment. Anora made what Alistair believed was the closest thing to an expression of concern that she's ever managed in the few times he has seen her in person.

"The Warden has been captured."

Suddenly setting her on fire wasn't such a bad idea.

Despite a small part of him nagging to use his Templar training to reign in the anger that his previous concern was fast turning into, never had he felt so enraged, worried, and terrified all at once. The thought that Anyalla was captured- and since the only prison in Denerim is Fort Drakon…Maker only knows what she's being put through…the very concept of her being harmed in any way made that nagging voice shut up almost instantaneously.

"And this _**may have**_ been your fault? Maybe? Perhaps?" The sheer loathing, complete and unbridled _rage_ in his words was enough to make even the ever politically stoic Anora take a step back in concern for her own safety. She put her hands up defensively, opening her mouth to say something, perhaps attempt and explain her way out of this, but thought better of it and said nothing. _'Smart move, Anora. The only one you've made today, it seems.'_ Any doubts he had of taking the throne left at the betrayal she displayed. If this is how she shows gratitude for being saved, he didn't want her to run a country, especially not after the Blight. _'Lest we get arrested for sodding _saving_ the bloody country,'_ but those thoughts were distant, something catalogued to be brought up another time…preferably a time where Anyalla was curled safely in his arms and he didn't have to dwell on what might be happening to her. Eamon snapped him out of his reverie as he worriedly demanded how this happened. Anora simply shook her head in response, fueling Alistair's rage to near boiling point.

"Never mind that. The question is how to free her." Anora went on to say that getting in the tower would not be easy, and that it would be heavily guarded. As far as he was concerned, it was a triviality, an obstacle he would simply have to plow through to save her. And he _would_ save her. Of that, he had no doubt. For once, _he _could be her savior, her knight in shining armor to pull her out of her darkest of times.

"Alright, then I'll take someone with me to bring her back," Alistair simply said, already doing a mental checklist of qualities their other group members had. He would need to bring a healer, and Wynne was the best equipped for that job, so-

"Absolutely not."

…_**WHAT?**_

"Eamon, you can't honestly expect me to sit here and do _nothing_ while my fellow Warden is in a dungeon enduring Maker knows what and wait-"

"That is precisely what I am proposing, Alistair." Eamon walked over to his desk, leaning on it with both hands as he bowed his head in thought. "Loghain already has one of you, and thankfully the less important of the two of you," Alistair nearly exploded at the implication that Anyalla was some sort of…_expendable_ commodity. Morrigan's rage match his own, a surprising comfort that he was not expecting to feel. "We cannot risk Loghain getting a hold of you as well. You're the heir to the throne, and he would show far less mercy on you if it meant he could continue to rule without fear of opposition." Alistair sputtered indignantly, but before he could protest, Zevran appeared out of the shadows.

"Then it is settled," Zevran said passively, though the dirty glare he shot briefly toward the Arl indicated that he had been there long enough to hear his insult to Anyalla. "Leliana and I will infiltrate the tower, and rescue the fair Warden." He casually slid his Crow dagger from its holster, inspecting the blade thoughtfully, a smirk slowly forming on his lips. "And should her captors object, well…fewer Loghain sympathizers are a bonus, no?" He slid the weapon back into its proper place with a definitive nod. "Leliana and I shall return shortly."

"You cannot _possibly_ expect me to not-"

"Oh come now, Alistair. Would it not be better for you to be here for her comfort when she returns?" Though Zevran's words were meant to comfort, it did little to soothe his nerves. This was the love of his _life_ they were talking about here! And they wanted him to do _nothing?_ But he knew arguing was futile. The damned Antivan was far more agile than he, and if he really wanted to, could just knock him out and leave, and what good would that do? If anything, he just ran the risk of not being awake when she returned.

"As much as I dislike giving the Crow any false impressions that I am fond of him, I have to side with Zevran on this, Alistair," Morrigan noted thoughtfully. "You're…not exactly built for stealth, and this is clearly something that must be handled with finesse…a skill you lack. Severely."

"Damn you…" he grit his teeth but it was already too late: Zevran was already gone, presumably to collect Leliana before he went off to save Anyalla. His fists clenched, but he didn't have the will to punch anything. He felt…he felt…

"I know how you feel, my boy," Eamon's hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts. "When Connor and I were in the Fade, I was desperately searching for him. I could hear him, but I couldn't see him, no matter what I did." He patted his shoulder as a vague show of comfort before returning to his desk and taking a seat. "Go and get some rest, Alistair. You're going to need it." He numbly did as he was told, and walked to his room in the estate.

The room itself had changed little since the days when he was a young boy, ducking through the halls to avoid the Arlessa's ever scornful glare, before he was made to sleep in the stable with the Mabari war hounds of the castle. Were he not overwhelmed with the gripping fear of what she could be enduring and self-hatred for not rushing out the door and saving his dearest love, he would have appreciated the sentiment of Eamon preserving his memory a little more. Numbly, he unbuckled his armor one piece at a time slowly, and without looking at what he was doing. He was past the point of caring what happened to his armor or what was around him. Blankly, he stared ahead with dark and clouded eyes as he began to try and force his legs to carry him over to the bed. With every slow, dragging step, another piece of armor fell, and the more bereft his expression grew. By the time he had reached the soft mattress, he was suppressing the tears that clung to the edges of his eyes, but success was fleeting, especially when he thought of the last time he had touched that bed.

He had not been its only occupant.

_"Alistair, are you alright?" _He felt a hand that was not there ghost over his cheek, a thumb he could not see stroking it fondly. He had been upset at the time, but it was nothing compared to the complete and total breakdown that was threatening his entire being. Recalling his last conversation with her in this room was doing little to soothe his nerves, but he found himself physically responding the same way he had when she was with him, as she sat on the edge of the bed, he standing over her in little more than the brown pants and white loose shirt he wore now, nuzzling a hand that he could only remember. The tears he had been holding back now cascaded down his face as he silently trembled, but remembered his reply to her.

"No, my love…" had the situation not been what it was, he would have been surprised at the fact that he was actually responding according to his memory of the first night they slept here. "No, I'm not well at all…" the answer to her question had held a different meaning when she had asked him. His throat closed, so he simply let the memory replay, though his body insisted on reacting to a touch only remembered through a veil of remorse. _'I fear that I might not be a good king. I would never trust Anora to rule; that is out of the question. But I have begun to doubt myself as of late,'_ he lifted his head, looking where he remembered her sitting delicately upon the bed of his childhood, her other hand reaching up to hold his face in between them. _'I fear that I will make the same mistakes as Anora…or worse, Cailan, and not do enough for my country…'_ She had sighed, and he could have sworn he felt the light puff of air tousle his hair ever so slightly.

_"Alistair, come here,"_ his body obeyed, trembling with suppressed sobs as the memory of her guided him to the bed, where she had laid next to him, her fingers running through his hair in an effort to soothe him. _"Anora believes that she is the only one who can solve the world's problems, so everyone should just stay out of her way. In that respect, she is no better than her father. I know I don't need to tell you that you're nothing like that shadow of a man."_ She had pulled his head down a little to press a gentle kiss to his forehead before returning it to her eye level. _"And Cailan was a good man, but he never knew hardship, never knew what it was like to be dealt the short end of the stick in life. You do. And that is why you could never sit idly by and do nothing while others are suffering."_

Hearing her assure him that he would never do what he is essentially doing to her, of all people, right this very moment, combined with her lingering scent upon the pillow beneath his head was too much for him. Helplessness enveloped him, and tightened its grasp until it forced his sobs to the surface. Softly, he wept, frustrated that there was nothing more he could do for his beloved than pray fervently to the Maker under his breath that she return to him safely, and that if He could do this for him, just this one thing for him, he would be her protector for the rest of his days, shield her from every hurtful thing in this world so that she might at long last know some happiness after her family was ripped from her on one treacherous night.

And just like that, the image of her lying there faded away.


	2. Of Return and Rage

How long Alistair lie there, breathing in what little of her scent remained in his bed and staring at the spot she had occupied, he couldn't be sure; enough time had passed that the sun had dipped far lower than the tops of the buildings in the Denerim Market, that much was certain, but whether it was early evening or late night when he heard the doors to the estate creak open, the heavy wood only swelling more with the moisture of the night's heavy downpour of rain. He bolted up from his spot on the bed and all but flew down to the main hall.

He could sense the Taint within these halls.

Anyalla had returned to him.

The hope and relief that had flooded his veins was dammed by the sight that greeted his tired eyes as he rounded the corner toward the main doors. Zevran and Leliana stood on either side of the Warden, her arms around each of them as they practically carried her into the estate. Her head bowed, her feet dragging, he could see little of her, but he could see enough. With a speed that impressed even Zevran, he was in front of them, gingerly scooping her in his arms the way a groom would to his new bride. "Maker's Breath…!" He gasped, seeing her head roll onto his shoulder, he could now see the extent of her injuries.

Blood, both dried and fresh splashed across her ivory skin and matted clumps her chestnut brown hair. Gashes and gaping wounds marring her face and neck, and Maker knew where else- any other would was covered from his eyes by loose leather armor, though if the blood stains were any indication…he shook those thoughts as he tried to get her to look him in the eye. Her eyes, those gorgeous amber eyes, normally so lively and hopeful, were now dark and nearly lifeless, and would not meet his own. Her split, bloodied lips were parted, and it seemed as though she hadn't the strength to even lift her head enough to straighten her neck.

"Take her to your room- we'll get Wynne," Zevran said in a rushed manner, already heading to her quarters. Leliana gave him a sympathetic look before running off after the Antivan elf. His body visibly shaking, he walked as fast as he dared back to his room, doing his best to make his strides smooth to avoid jostling Anyalla. By the time Wynne had arrived, Alistair had already set her down on the mattress and had knelt beside the bed. The elderly mage turned to him with an air of urgency.

"Please, Alistair- you have to help me get her armor off so I can see how bad her injuries are…" he nodded, rising to his feet. As gently as he could, he cradled her neck and lifted her into a sitting position. Carefully, he unbuckled the leather armor and peeled it off of her, trying not to take in the lynching wounds on her back, the blood smearing far past the wounds' reach upon her skin. After a few moments, she was in nothing but her small clothes, and the damage was laid bare before them. The bruises, the cuts, the blood, in all the battles they had fought in, with all the dragons they had slain, never had he seen so many injuries on her person before. Hoping for some reassurance that this was easily fixable, that she wouldn't have to suffer for long before she was healed, he turned silently to Wynne, though any hopes he had were dashed at the solemn look on her face. "Alistair…" she hesitated, "…I'm going to have to do a lot more than cast a healing spell to fix this. Bring Morrigan; I will need her help."

Alistair was out the door before she could finish. He skid to a halt before Morrigan's room, pounding on the door with his fist. The Witch of the Wilds opened the door with a drowsy glare; his knocking had clearly woken her from a deep sleep. "Wynne…Anyalla…help…" he panted, partially from sprinting, mostly from panic. That was enough for Morrigan to wake. Any other time, she would have mocked his lack of forming a full sentence; the fact that she didn't only added to the gravity of the situation. He was surprised, almost impressed by the fact that she actually beat him back to the room. When he reached her, he almost wanted to sympathize with her for the look of horror on her face. Her face wasn't sure which expression to settle on for a few moments before she took on a grim look. She tenderly began to prod Anyalla's torso and limbs in search of broken bones. Sure enough, Anyalla gave out cries when Morrigan touched her ribs, her legs, and one of her arms.

"Alistair, leave us," Morrigan said without taking her eyes off Anyalla.

"W-what? How can you expect me to leave her like this?" He demanded, though almost regretted doing so when Morrigan unexpectedly whirred around to face him.

"You'll only be in the way, you fool!" The fire in her eyes made him shiver, despite his Templar training. "Do not act as though you are the only one suffering for her," she said with the same intensity, though her voice had dropped in volume as her gaze shifted back to her only friend. If there was one thing the two of them had, it was an understanding; they both loved Anyalla in different ways, and so long as they each respected that, they could tolerate one another for her sake. But Morrigan wasn't just speaking of herself; there was Oghren, who hadn't even touched a drop of alcohol since Anyalla's capture. Sten, who only spoke Qun prayers that none, save him, could understand. Beowulf simply lied in a corner in their room, whimpering at the uncertain fate of his master. Shale, despite muttering about human weakness, didn't even care to kill a pigeon that had perched on her when she went outside to brood. He was being selfish, he knew it. Silently, he walked out of the room, down to the library. At least the quiet there could give him privacy.

He was hardly surprised when the other party members greeted him in the hall, each looking at him in silent demand for a report on her condition. "Wynne and Morrigan are doing what they can," he muttered monotonously, not daring to show the flurry of emotions welling up inside him. He turned to Zevran and Leliana, dreading the answer to the question on the tip of his tongue but knowing they all needed to know, "How was she when you first found her…?"

He regretted asking the moment the question registered with the two rogues.

Zevran had to explain, as Leliana began to fight tears at the recollection, "She wasn't in her cell. At first, we weren't sure he had the right cell block, but then…" he drifted as his voice broke. Alistair didn't want to prompt him to continue, but it seemed that he didn't need to. "…Then…we heard the screams…" at this, Leliana finally began to sob as quietly as she could. Zevran brought her head to his shoulder, his arm around her in a gesture of comfort. "We followed it. She was on a wooden slab, in chains…and there was a guard, standing over her…" Leliana's sobs only increased as she buried her face in the crook of Zevran's neck. "…When we came in…he was…" Alistair's heart was in his throat as he waited for the answer. "…he was buckling his armor back on…" the Templar's eyes widened. No…no, that didn't…that bastard didn't…not to her-! "We don't know what happened, per say," Zevran said in an effort to comfort him, though the tone in his voice wasn't convincing. "She had lost a lot of blood, and wasn't entirely coherent by the time we had dispatched all of the guards- the one in the room had called for reinforcements when he saw us come in, but…" everyone in the group grimaced at the implication.

Alistair said nothing, choosing that the expression on his face would speak far more eloquently than he could at the moment, and simply walked past the others toward the armory. The library was suited for contemplation…

The armory was suited for taking out frustration.

Numbly, he picked up a practice sword, not bothering to re-equip his armor, and walked into the practice arena. There were a few training dummies, but the area was otherwise unoccupied. At the moment, Alistair thought in the back of his mind, that was probably for the best. The faceless straw dummy stared blankly back at him, and he tried to picture what the guard looked like. Was he young? Did he have a beard? The rage he felt consuming him only pulled him in further when he could not conjure a face-

Loghain.

He might not have been the one to harm her personally, but this was all because of him, because of one man's paranoia and greed. Suddenly, his face molded itself onto the training dummy; the long, crooked nose, the heavy black hair hanging down from a high and pompous brow, and the black beady eyes that were ever narrowed toward his personal goals and prejudices.

That was enough for him.

He charged from across the arena, his sword poised to strike, like a snake waiting to devour its prey. While his strokes were the very picture of precision, the end result of years spend training his body to perform the dance of death without a second thought, his mind was far from focused on the combat itself. He wanted to envision Loghain suffering, bleeding, crying out in agony as the bastard prince's strokes drew more and more life from his aging body. This was about envisioning his retribution for Duncan, for Ostagar, for the Blight, but for Anyalla most of all.

The next thing Alistair knew, his sword was stilled next to the dummy's wooden neck.

For several long moments he remained frozen like that, panting wildly, blood pounding in his ears, before the tides of rage subsided, and the shores of his mind were clear. She wouldn't want him like this; both of them knew that he was better than this, above twisted visions of taking pleasure from someone else's pain, no matter how deserved. Wordlessly, he let the practice sword clatter to the ground, the resonating sound the only thing he could hear past his labored breathing. He backed away slowly until his back hit the stone wall and he slid down it into a sitting position. No, he would not become what Loghain is now, what Howe used to be before Anyalla saw to his demise. She needed him, now more than ever, to be level-headed, to be there for her.

And he would be strong for her.

After collecting the dulled practice sword and discarding it in the cabinet with all the others, he made his way back up to the main hall, surprised to see Wynne and Morrigan conversing amongst themselves in a quietly heated manner. Upon hearing his approach, the two mages turned to face him. Wynne looked near collapse, but satisfied. Morrigan, while clearly having a lot drained from her, was clearly not pleased in the slightest at whatever the older of the mages was saying moments ago.

"I can_**not**_ believe these words are coming from my mouth, but…" Morrigan grimaced in disdain. "…Alistair will…clearly see to reason…far better than you in this, Wynne." At this point, he was almost positive that was her exhaustion talking. Her, of all people, saying he would be more _sensible_ than someone else- even Beowulf? The world truly was coming to an end.

"Alistair, we have done what we can-" Wynne started to say before Morrigan cut her off.

"We have done what _you_ could. I can finish healing her properly without you hovering over my shoulder trying to lecture me, but clearly you have difficulty seeing priority," at these words, Alistair's interest was piqued.

"What's going on, exactly?"

"_Wynne_," she threw a dirty glare toward the elderly mage before continuing, "won't let me completely heal Anyalla. And with Wynne's mana completely drained, that leaves me as the only able mage amongst us. So who is supposed to finish the job…"

"I only say that," Wynne replied calmly, "because we do not know yet if her bones have set properly." Alistair tried not to flinch at that. "In the morning when we are both properly rested, we can see to it that they are before we try to heal her." Morrigan scowled, but saw that there was little she could argue at that point. "Besides," despite her aging featured, she grinned wolfishly at Alistair. "I think they need some time alone. He can heal in her what no spell could."

"How she fell for that _buffoon_," Morrigan said as she and the mage walked to their rooms, ignoring the blush dusting his cheeks, "is beyond me."


End file.
